A Magpie's Tale
by Gimli's Pickaxe
Summary: Legolas helps a wounded bird, and learns a little something about himself. Oneshot.


**A Magpie's Tale**

I thrash my wings, trying desperately to avoid the arrow that even now whistles towards me. The men in the village must be hungry today; for I know that they normally do not hunt my kind. We are considered good omens. They must be desperate, starving. But I cannot pass, not yet. I think of my young ones, most probably waiting for me, their beaks agape, squeaking in hunger.

My young ones. They must be so hungry now.

I am not fast enough, and an arrow tears through my leg, leaving a searing flash of pain followed by a dull ache. I am dripping blood, I feel the warmness against my feet and as it trickles towards my tail.

I flap my wings furiously, and at last I must have flied high enough, for no arrows chase me. My strength is all but spent, and I rustle the feathers of my wing, spreading them wide and trying to glide without jostling my hurt leg too much.

It is to no avail. My strength leaves me, bit by bit, trickles away and leaves me utterly spent. I start losing altitude. Soon, I force myself to land, nearly banging my head onto an overhanging branch. My beak takes the brunt of the damage, and it hurts.

Something rustles besides me, and I frantically hop backwards, ready to spread my wings and take flight any instant. I am spent – but I think I can manage this one more flight, just this one more. I cannot afford to be caught, not now.

My little ones await.

The branches rustle, again, and I catch the scent of moist leaves after a summer rain. This is very strange – it is winter, and even now soft, white snow blankets everything, lending a crisp backdrop against the dark brown winter trees. I smell it again, and this time a face appears amongst the branches.

It is a fair face, incredibly handsome by human standards, and pale gold hair hanging all around it and across it, bright blue eyes meeting mine in a level, steady gaze. It is an elf.

He holds his hand forward, and I smell summer grass again, the scent somehow so very sweet and melancholic. I hop forward – I know this elf will not hurt me. He whispers something to me, in his own language, but I do not understand what he says. The lilting cadence of the words is soothing, flowing, a balm upon my tired ears, but I cannot stay here, like this.

My little ones await. They would be cold, so cold, so hungry, waiting for me.

I shake my whole body violently, sending snow flying every which way, and gesture with my beak towards the direction of my nest. Again. Then again. Will he understand? I need to go.

And yet, I am too tired to take flight, and my leg, it still hurts so much...

The elf seems to take my hint, and holds its hands out yet again. I squawk, impatiently, but I still make my way across the branch towards the elf. Will he carry me?

Then he holds his hand agaist my injured leg, and I feel something stange and foreign flowing quickly out of him and towards my leg. It tingles, and itches, and I shake my leg for good measure – then look down in wonder.

My leg is whole again; and my tiredness is no more.

My little ones!

I poise myself for flight, ruffling out my wet feathers, priming them for the short journey ahead. The elf smiles towards me and gestures with my hand, as if telling me to go, but at that instant he seems so sad, so melancholy, as if he were living through a dream instead of real life.

I am intrigued with the creature, but my chicks await, and I have no time to waste. I draw in a deep breath, savoring that sweet, musty scent of sharp dew upon summer leaves onto my soul - and leap into the air.

Towards my little ones.

* * *

Legolas stretched, leaning leisurely against the branch, letting a languid feeling of relaxedness spread into his stiff limbs. The weak winter sun filtered through the sparse evergreen boughs, dappling the white floor with intricate patterns of grey and gold.

Breathe out – and see the air fog before him, misty, silvery-grey, as if some mirage from another world. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in.

He frowned, slightly annoyed, at this strange restlessness that plagued him. He wished to run free over the creeks of the forest, he wanted to cry out towards the moon. He wanted to roam all the dark and wild places the world had yet to offer, he wished to run, unhindered, over the rough hills and untended plains, his golden hair a banner as he ran.

So what was holding him back? Why did he wish to go, and yet could not bring himself to?

_What are the chains that bind me?_

There was a discreet chirp, closer somehow to a squawk than true birdsong, and Legolas turned his head. He spied a single magpie perched on a branch above him, its distinctive, sparkling black coat and white markings pristine against the snow.

He recognized it as the magpie he had healed several days ago. It had been spent, utterly tired, bleeding from an arrow wound – a hunted bird. Why had it not left yet? Legolas had presumed it to have taken flight as far from the spot of its hunting as possible – it was the most natural thing to do.

"What binds you here, my friend?" he whispered, slipping into his tongue, and gasped as he looked upon a single, delicately crafted nest.

It was woven from twigs and leaves and branches of every shape and size, speaking of obvious care and effort. A brood of magpie chicks peeked out of the nest, chirruping and squeaking and rustling their soft, fluffy baby down. The magpie looked upon her brood affectionately, before puffing out her chest and giving Legolas a sharp look as if daring him to do anything to her offspring.

_What binds you here, my friend?_ \- Legolas had asked, and now he had the answer, sharp and clear before his eyes. The magpie leaned down, preening the littlest of the chicks, nudging another before it tumbled backwards out of the snug nest.

_Love. It is love that binds you. Love that binds me._

Images of his mortal friends flashed through Legolas now, numbing in their intensity. Gimli glowering over an empty tankard of ale, Aragorn bent over a clay pipe reeking of Pipeweed. Sam, smudges of dirt upon his open, honest face, wiping sweat as he tended his garden under the sweltering sun of June. Pippin, eyes sparkling wildly, daring Merry to race him down to the Brandywine river.

Yes, Legolas was a wood-elf at heart, and ever he longed to be free, to run and leap and exult in the rich bounty Arda offered. He loved the wild, untamed places, loved to run free and unfettered under wide star-spangled skies.

And yet – inexorably, he was bound as if with invisible chains, to the lives of his mortal friends that burnt so bright, so fast, so dazzling. Ten years is nothing in the life of a tree, a stream, a rock. And yet ten years and little Elanor would grow up. Eldarion would court maidens of his own, Aragorn would start getting grey hairs in his beard, and Pippin might just settle down and decide to refine himself a tad...

Ten years in the life of a mortal, he mused, and decided that he would not miss a second of it for all of the world.

_Love is the chains that bind me._

He was bound, fettered, tied, unable to so much as turn away or take a step in the opposite direction. He would never be free. He was a prisoner without chains, a servant to his heart. They called to him so.

And yet – he did not mind at all.


End file.
